


a lark song

by JaguarCello



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:22:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>her wrists are slender, bird-boned, and her hair is tangled and wild<br/>(her thigh tastes like salt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lark song

The light in the room is low, candles flickering on the shelf - because, as Cosette had whispered into Éponine’s neck, clichés exist for a reason - and the dancing of the flames cast shadows in the grooves of Éponine’s collarbones; her spine sharpened and faded, like looking in a funhouse mirror, and Cosette couldn’t keep her eyes off her. She, too, was half-naked, the delicate blue lace of her underwear contrasting with the flush from the rosé they had drunk, and her lips were soft as whispers, and under her hands Éponine is shadows and disordered hair; her wrists are light, bird-boned, and the pulse under Cosette’s fingertips quickens.

 There are words inked across Éponine’s ribcage, trailing round to spindle over her back. The characters are distorted slightly by the pull of her breathing, and when Cosette runs her nails lightly along the letters, she feels Éponine’s breath hitch, and her dark eyes, shadowed with make-up, snap up to look into her own. “I was twenty, and I wanted to mark my body as my own,” Éponine tells her, and her lips tastes of smoke, mixed with the sweetness of the first of the churros they’d bought from the corner market. “I was sick of other people claiming it, so I did it myself,” and her lips are questing now, asking a silent question. Cosette smiles, and tugs her forwards gently, hands on her shoulders, to claim her mouth once more.

 “The churros will get cold,” Cosette points out, slender wrists encircling Éponine’s waist. “Not that I care,” she adds, and Éponine hums contentedly against her throat. There will be bruises from her mouth tomorrow, and she’ll wear a low-cut top to show them off, and Éponine – equally marked by teasing tongue and teeth – will smile like she has a secret.

Cosette’s hair is long enough to half-cover her, and Éponine’s mind leaps to half-forgotten tales of Lady Godiva, and what happened to that Peeping Tom – and she’s half-afraid to look now that Cosette’s underwear has slid to the floor, but she looks, because blindness would be a fine price to able to drink in this girl, and reaches behind her to undo her bra. The curls that slip over Cosette’s shoulders are messy, tangled from Éponine’s fingers, and with a tilt of her eyebrows, Cosette reaches out to slip the straps of Éponine’s bra over her shoulders, and then presses a swift kiss to her collarbone.

Éponine is transfixed.

 When they’d first met, Éponine had thought she was a spoilt rich girl, wasting money on manicures and fine clothes- but now the hands that moved across her back are soft, and the nails (unlike Éponine’s own bitten stubs) are gentle. The clothes, she considers, were a waste of money, and she drinks in the plains of Cosette’s stomach, and the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing gets faster, half-moans coaxed out of her, and she is almost a shock to look out – eyelashes, pale without makeup (washed away when they were laughing in the rain), flutter like a flag in the wind, and Éponine has to remind herself to breathe.

Cosette’s skin, the soft skin on the inside of her thigh, tastes of honeysuckle shower gel and salt, and Éponine is quicksand, shifting and changing with every nuance of Cosette’s body – for she demands worship with every quirk of those perfect lips, and Éponine is a more than willing pilgrim.

 There is a storm raging under Cosette’s skin; she’s half-afraid that if she moves too much, hurricanes will burst from her fingertips and lightening will crackle through her hair, and already there is a tempest building at the base of her spine; her neck is exposed and her fingers are clenching at the bedsheets, and Éponine grins (too wickedly for Cosette not to groan) at her from between her legs, and then she is adrift, tossed back and forth, and the wild wave she’s riding is cresting, rising to a glorious crescendo –

 She crashes back into her body at the same time as her hips settle back onto the sofa, and Éponine is still grinning at her, eyebrows half-raised, as she sips from the glass next to her, as her vision trembles back into focus and her breathing quietens.

 “Nice girls – “ she started, but Éponine is shoving cushions aside to squash next to her, and kisses her – she tastes rosé and sugar still, but high up, herself, and this makes her mouth curve into a smile, and she trails a finger down Éponine’s chest.

 “Nobody could accuse you of being a nice girl,” she reasoned out loud, and leans to kiss, butterfly-soft, the curve of her hipbone. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry


End file.
